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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/incolorsofwestOOdres 



IN COLORS OF THE WEST 



IN COLORS 
OF THE WEST 



BY 

GLENN WARD DRESBACH 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1922 



s# 






Copyright, 1922, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



JUL I i 1922 



A677471 



v ft 



TO MARY 



Many of the poems included in this volume have appeared 
in Poetry, A Magazine of Verse, The Midland, The Smart Set, 
Contemporary Verse, The Measure, All's Well, Everybody 's, 
Romance, The Lyric West, Ainslee's, Munsey's, and Life and 
the author thanks them for permission to republish. 



CONTENTS 
IN WESTERN MOUNTAINS 

PAGE 

In Western Mountains 13 

SONGS AND LYRICS 

Broken Music 19 

An Old Wood in Spring 20 

A Road Song 21 

A Desert Willow 22 

August Noon 23 

The Leaves on the Scrub Oak 24 

Mirage 25 

I Gave You Moods 27 

I Have Always Said I Would Go 28 

An Autumn Wood 29 

Meadow Brook 30 

Which Shall I Pity Most Today 32 

Summer to Autumn 33 

An Autumn Road 34 

Wise Gamblers 35 

The Fruit That Grew in Eden 36 

OF PLACES AND SEASONS 

In the Desert 39 

Desert Shadow Songs 42 

River Songs 44 

In an Old Woodland 46 

In Porto Bello Bay 49 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

While the Pollen Drifts 51 

The Game — Panama 55 

The Hill Road 56 

While the Prairie Whispers 57 

In t:ie Dark of the Moon 59 

SONNETS 

A Mountain Lake 63 

The Chronicle of Dust 64 

Hazy Weather 65 

Frosty Meadows 66 

Cutting Weeds 67 

An April Moon 68 

Beauty in the Ruins 69 

Moths and Lights 70 

The Process 71 

VIGNETTES FROM LIFE 

The Feel of Silk 75 

The Needle's Eye .77 

A Deeper Spring 79 

New Walls 81 

Gifts 83 

The Crow's Nest 85 

LONGER POEMS 

Wild Apples 89 

A Night at Taboga 101 

The Wall of the Stars 109 

The Three Days 115 



IN WESTERN MOUNTAINS 



IN WESTERN MOUNTAINS 

I ' 

He stood a moment at the edge 

Of that cliff, looking out with me 

Upon great valleys ending in the haze, 

And mountains that from hazes drove a wedge 

Of snow in skies of lapis lazuli. 

Then something of the littleness of days 

His life could span came to him dizzily 

And he, who boasted of his might with men, 

Turned back and grasped a little cedar tree 

Nearby, for safety and he shut his eyes, 

Shaken, and would not turn to look again. . . . 

Back from that cliff -edge jutting out to skies 

He climbed and spoke at last with heavy breath, 

"God, what a place! What is it? Life or Death?" 

II 

Our words seemed much in vain. 

How many Ages helped those heights attain 

Such silence in the sun, 

O silent One? . . . 

He threw a stone, upon the crest, 
At some dwarfed bush he made his mark. 
A gray bird fluttered from her nest 
With startled cries, 

13 



IN WESTERN MOUNTAINS 

A lizard from the sun flashed to the dark 
Of veins in rock then turned its beady eyes 
To look at us as if it wondered why 
A fool should mar such comfort near the sky. 

The stone was cast as small boys throw 
White pebbles on smooth pools as if to see 
In troubled surface where faint circles go 
Some action that to alien minds may show 
More kinship to their own reality. 

Ill 

Faint jingle of little bells 

And the half-heard shuffle of feet, 

High up on the mountain side, 

Crept down through the waves of heat, 

And a gray thread wove through the wide 

Tapestry of the mountain side. 

The burro train came down 

With the ores men take apart 
As the treasure they love the best 

From the multitudinous heart 
Of mountain — but all I could see 
Was a gray thread through a tapestry. 

IV 

From a deep couch of sun 
I raised myself and, blinking, lay 
Watching the colors melt and run 
From golds and purples to the wan 
Fantastic streets of Babylon. 
Pale flowers in hanging gardens swayed 
14 



IN WESTERN MOUNTAINS 

Out to a haze of amethyst — 

Ah, God, what vows of hearts were made? 

What lips were kissed? 

Near me a stir — and one by one 

The lizards crept back to the sun. 

I felt a sudden touch 

Of creeping chill — 

A lizard crawled upon my hand, no more 

Afraid of it because it was so still 

And warm in sun, as much 

A part of things as stones although it bore, 

Unknown to lizards, power to crush and kill. . . 

What warmth and power am I, too, resting on! 
Be kind, Hand, that crushed mad Babylon ! 



Up there I wondered if but yesterday 

I cursed the little things that barred my way 

To quick desires . . . 

There, through years of fires 

From summer suns and ashes blown 

From burned-out winter moons, that cedar clings 

To sheer rock — alone — 

Groping here with a root and there with one, 

Asserting its right to stand up in the sun 

Or face the storm's hurled shock . . . 

And, since it was not left to grow where run 

Sweet juices of rich earth, it grows — in rock! 



15 



SONGS AND LYRICS 



BROKEN MUSIC 



There come so many strains of broken music 
From lives that dreamed to make a symphony, 

But something in them makes my heart remember 
The music of the restless, troubled sea. 

There come to me so many half-heard whispers 
From loves that now the last great word have said, 

But something in them makes my heart grow troubled 
As in a woodland when the leaves are dead. 



19 



AN OLD WOOD IN SPRING 

The wood was so old that I thought 
To hear it saying its prayers 

In its aisles like cloisters wrought, 
But I came on it, unawares, 

Chuckling like old men mellow grown 

Talking of Youth on a hill alone. 



20 



A ROAD SONG 

"Good morning," I said to the woman, 

And her weary voice replied, 
"Good morning," as if to the flowers 

In the basket at her side — 
I said to her, "Sell me some flowers." 

She said, "They're for one who died." 

And I met a small boy followed 

By a dog that seemed content 
To wag his tail like a banner 

Wherever the small boy went. 
"Sell me the dog?" I questioned. 

Said the boy, "He's not worth a cent." 

And far on the road this morning 

If any one may try 
To buy my dreams I will answer, 

"There were things I could not buy." 
There's a wind in the new leaves stirring, 

There's a call and a faint reply. 

And out on the road that's only 

A road because men went 
Over a path so often, 

If any one comes intent 
To buy my dreams I will answer, 

"To you they're not worth a cent!" 



21 



A DESERT WILLOW 

The smallest breeze can waken 

A rapture in these leaves, 
A few bright raindrops seem a shower, 

As if this tree believes 
So much in things it wants to be 
It works its will mysteriously. 

And here no brooklet's mirror 

Can show the tree how fair 
It stands. At roots the hidden waters 

Moisten sands and there 
The whispers quicken musically 
From waters dreaming toward the sea. 

The farthest star can brighten 
These branches, half a moon 

Give glory, and this little willow 
Makes a desert's June — 

As if it knew such things should be 

No greater than its imagery. 



22 



AUGUST NOON 

Lost fairy ships at anchor 
On streams of daytime sleep 

Are all the water-lilies 
Where weary waters creep. 

Even a thrush sits silent 

Where reeds begin to die. . . . 
A hawk seems caged, uncaring, 

In one hot bit of sky. 

Oh, what has gone from summer 
Here where I walk alone? . . , 

Something that goes from loving 
When all of Love is known. 



23 



THE LEAVES ON THE SCRUB OAK 

The leaves on the scrub oak are dying 

And flocks of birds are flying farther south. 

A purple haze is heavy in the distance . . . 

The frost will kill what lasts beyond the drouth. 

So many words were said, yet still unanswered 
Are all the deeper questions — put aside — 

How fit it is that, in this weary season 

My dreams have flown from you, my love has died! 

I shall not stay to hear the oak leaves rattle 
Across the gray sand — reaches now so dry — 

Ah, I shall turn to you and break my silence 
With futile words, and smile and say good-by. 



24 



MIRAGE 

Above the heat-waves breaking 
On hazy shores that seem 

To grow from faded purple 
And golds all spent of gleam 
Is spread a desert's dream. 

Above the sands and ridges 
Barren and hard and dry, 

A haunting beauty fashions 
Its magic in the sky 
Where no birds now go by. 

A little lake is rippled 

By winds not reaching here, 

And trees of slender beauty 
On low shores linger near 
The waters strangely clear . 

Unreal, a thing of vision, 
Empty as is the air! 

Beauty bred of delusion, 
Mirage, but oh, how fair 
Above sands old and bare! 

Above the barren places 

Of days when nothing seems 

Sure of the quest it follows — 
Of far-off trees and streams 
Send Mirage, my Dreams! 
25 



I GAVE YOU MOODS 

I gave you moods of white sails passing 

From vision on a lonely sea — 
Then, touched with longing for a moment, 

Your hands reached out and clung to me. 
Can you be content with nearness 

When the distance still must be? . . . 

I gave you whispers from the longing 

Of the winds in desert lands, 
Then, afraid of something spoken 

Over shadow-patterned sands, 
How you groped to me in twilight 

With your ineffectual hands! 

I gave you songs of mountain waters, 
Of moonlight on an empty plain, 

Of rain on roofs forever haunted, 
Of undersongs in driven rain — 

Your eyes grew troubled and, in silence 
You crept into my arms again. 



26 



I HAVE ALWAYS SAID I WOULD GO 

I have always said I would go sometime in the autumn 
Away from the bare boughs and the fallen leaves, 

Away from the lonely sounds and the faded colors, 
And all the ancient sorrow, and change that grieves. 

I have always said I would go — and now it's autumn — 
To an island where the wild hibiscus grows 

And parakeets flock to the groves at twilight 

And fragrance drifts from bays where moonlight glows. 

But there would be the vasty sound of breakers 
Come in to toss their pearls upon the sand. 

All through the night — a longing of great waters 
Trying to make the vastness understand. 

I have always said I would go sometime in the autumn 
Away from the lonely sounds and change that grieves — 

But here in my heart is the sound of a distant ocean 

And here in my heart is the sound of these falling leaves. 



27 



AN AUTUMN WOOD 

An autumn wood upon a hill 

Against the sunset stands so still 

In distance that I only guess 

How leaves drift down and softly press 

Against the fragrant earth in sleep, 

How voices of the wood grow deep 

With some new meaning in that flare 

Of beauty fading, drifting there. 

The mingled golds and crimsons run 

From woodland into setting sun. 

The wood's hazed grays and jaspers fuse 

With sunset's vaster pinks and blues. 

A gold leaf blown a little way 

Sees gold cloud-ships drift down a bay 

Of rainbow fires that very soon 

Will turn to pale seas of the moon — 

And past cloud-ships with ghostly spars 

The frosted spray will turn to stars . . . 

Oh, could I meet death so at last 

With beauty answering a vast 

Of beauty, I would then be still 

In autumn wood upon a hill. 



28 



MEADOW BROOK 

Sway of the young corn growing, growing, 

Smell of the wind from the pastures blowing, 

Then willows listening to a song 

Of a meadow brook between them flowing ! 

I shall not stay to listen long 

For fear I get the wistful air 

Of willows listening, and care 

Too much for what the brook is saying 

Down through water-lilies playing 

Like fairies dangling pearly toes 

While the water comes and goes. 

I shall turn and look on grasses 

Swaying in the wind, and trees, 

Stones and grains, for soon with these, 

While the water sings and passes, 

I shall always have to stay — 

No matter what the brook would say . . . 

Why do I still linger, waiting, 

Touching fingers with the brook, 

Looking as the willows look — 

While the water through my fingers 

Gleams and slips away? 



29 



WHICH SHALL I PITY MOST TO-DAY 

Which shall I pity most to-day 

Of olden April loves? 
The one I saw go out to feed 

A flock of snowy doves 
Beyond her lonely garden-place 
With but lost Aprils in her face? 

Or shall I pity most the one 

I met where crowds went by, 
With flash of gems upon her breast 

And winter in her eye, 
And Master Poodle walking, proud 
In place of Love, through April's crowd? 

Or shall I pity most the dear, 
Strange one who went with Death, 

To lose the earth-born rapture gone 
As in a rose's breath? . . . 

That body gone to dust again 

Answer with violets the rain. 



30 



SUMMER TO AUTUMN 

My leaves of green you will turn to gold and crimson, 
My ripened fruits you will give their fullest hue, 

And my scattered birds will flock to you at parting — 
But all I give in turn will be taken from you. 

Your gold and crimson leaves will be banners fallen, 
Your flushed fruits will be scattered on the ground, 

And, at the last, the birds will hasten southward 
And leave you winds and many a lonely sound. 

We dream the dream and never reach completion 
Within ourselves, then pass in things we give . . . 

Always the void of winter wraps in silence 
Things that in spite of winter wait and live. 



31 



AN AUTUMN ROAD 

Down a hill, then up a hill 
And then a vast of sea! 

A wedge of wild geese crying 
Passes over me — 

And now my dreams are flying 
Where I may never be. . . . 

Down a hill and up a hill, 
Then level lands again! 

Far off the sea is speaking 
A longing that is pain — 

My eyes are weary seeking 
For my lost ship from Spain. 

Down a hill and up a hill, 

Oh, so long ago, 
There was a princess singing — 

Where, I do not know. . . 
There were arms that, clinging, 

Would not let me go. 



32 



WISE GAMBLERS 

Four old trees stand tall on a hill. 
Wind swirls around them, never still, 
And their heads together bow and sway 
As if in talk of a game they play. 
Sometimes they laugh and sometimes sigh, 
And there beneath a low gray sky 
I've seen them drop their leaves when thins 
The gold and crimson, as near dawn 
Wise gamblers drop their cards upon 
The table, saying kindly, "Why 
Quarrel with a game that no one wins!" 



33 



THE FRUIT THAT GREW IN EDEN 

The fruit that grew in Eden 

A later time may be 
The sorrow of a dreamer 

Who bowed on Calvary. 
For trees that grew in Eden 

He bowed beneath a tree. . . . 

I cannot build an Eden 
Of such long-rotted leaves, 

I cannot dream the beauty 
Of faith that yet believes 

In hands that thrust the lances 
In One between the thieves. 

I build a place of fancy 

Of such things as I see, 
I keep a faith in something 

Till it has lied to me — 
The thing that vanquished Eden 

Wears down bare Calvary. 



34 



OF PLACES AND SEASONS 



IN THE DESERT 
I 

Tumults of silence thunder in my ears. 

What land is this with such immensity, 
Which keeps lost glory-cities in its skies 

Half seen through heat-waves surging dizzily? 

Here are the Hanging Gardens in their bloom, 
And here the domes of Nineveh and Tyre, 

And in this cloud above the glare of sands 
Is Rome that sends its glory up in fire. 

My eyes ache and I turn them to the ground. 

Here is a busy ant hill at my feet; 
The ants have worn thin trails through burning sand . . 

They bring their bits of green things through the heat. 

And Time that trod the olden cities down 

And scattered stones turned dust with dust of kings, 

May send a careless foot to ant hills here 
And crush the work even of humble things. 

II 

There's no hiding here in the glare of the desert — 
If your coat is sham the sun shines through . . . 

Here with the lovely things and the silence 
There is no crowd for saving you. 
37 



IN THE DESERT 

When hearts love here the love lasts longer, 

And hate here leaves a heavy scar. 
But we, with the desert's beauty of distance, 

Are always dreaming of places far. 

The tropic seas and the throb of cities, 

And harbors filled with the ships we knew. 

We keep, with the sun and the stars and silence, 
Life — and a promise glimmers through. 

If you have come to start a kingdom — 
Our eyes looked on Rome and Tyre. 

But if you come with dreams for baggage 
Sit with us by the cedar fire! 

Ill 

When first the love-moon rose above the desert 
Lifted from the slime of slow-drained inland seas, 

What shape first moved from hillsides to the magic 
Of strange lands whispering in symphonies? 

Was it a cave-man hungering for beauty, 

Wanting his mate? And did he find her soon? 

Or was it but a wolf that sitting fearless 

Cried out a world-old longing to the moon? 

IV 

Some day a river may be put in chains, 

And held from rendezvous with passionate seas, 

To fill these lands with sounds of dancing rains 
And songs of ripening grain and flowering trees. 



38 



IN THE DESERT 

And homes may scatter on these sunbaked sands' 
Where now long purple shadows spread and fill 

Strange empty places . . . One with empty hands 
May stand here then and see a desert still. 

And one with heart where Love has sent no stream 
Of starlight, in some house built then, may bow 

Before long purple shadows, lost in dream, 
Even as I do now! 

V 

In the hills to the north of the desert 

A little river flows, 
But when it comes to the desert 

No one sees where it goes — 
It creeps into sands and passes 

From places sunlight knows. 

The fevered skies of the desert 

Would drain it thirstily 
If it stayed for a year of splendor 

Where ages still must be — 
But alone it creeps to the darkness 

To find the light of the sea. 



39 



DESERT SHADOW SONGS 
I 

The shadow of a cloud moves on the grass 

Parched with the fever of the thirsting day, 

A filmy coolness drifted from afar 

And drifted soon away — 

Promise of rain that fails, how soon to pass 

Where deeper shadows are. 

So on my brow what shadow-hands have passed 

And left an olden fever to the last. . . . 

O land of hot winds and dwarfed, wistful tree 
And all veiled mysteries of amethyst and blue, 
My shadow falls on you, 
Your shadows fall on me. 

II 

I would not have my Love be here 

In shadowed silence lest she see 
My shadow more than me and fear 

Within my arms again to be — 
For fear her son and mine at birth 

Would keep such shadows in his eyes, 
Too much a part of long gray earth, 

God, too hurt, too quickly wise ! 
40 



DESERT SHADOW SONGS 



III 

Across the heated level of the sand 

Pale shadows reach from jutting hills 

To touch the trees in narrow valley land, 

As I have seen 

The thin white hands at grimy window sills 

Reach out to touch some precious sprig of green 

As if the sight of it was not enough — 

It was so full of magic stuff — 

And only touch could understand. 

IV 

A trickle of water goes between 
Gnashed ridges, in a sandy bed 
Wide as a river might have been. . . . 
What waters down this course had sped 
To distance (and how long ago!) 
That this thin stream a lure might know 
Out to that vast of shadow-sea 
Waving in hazes mockingly. 

So from what springs in me must creep 
What streams unto what phantom-deep! 



41 



RIVER SONGS 
I 

Here, where the wide, slow-moving river 

Shines through the willows winds make songs about, 
I hear faint music moving on the waters 

Close to the shore, with silence farther out. 

I feel there is a deep orchestral music 

In that wide brightness always surely bound 

Upon its journey — as when in the starlight 
I feel star-rhythms, miss celestial sound. 

Of all great things and lovely moving onward, 
Rivers and dreams that ages long may love, 

I tell my heart and yet it still must wonder 

How great the urge, how faint the songs thereof! 

II 

Who knows this river's longing for the sea? 

What proud ships and what drifting wrecks it bore? 
It sings not of its fevered days of drouth 

Or floods whose scars are gray upon the shore. 

Yet had you seen the narrow waters crawl 

Between the sand-bars when the drouth was here, 

Then you would know — and had you seen the floods 

Rip down this channel you would think of fear. 

42 



RIVER SONGS 

Who knows my longing? Who would care to know? 

What of the drouth- times and the times of love? 
I know not all myself — but I may know 

How great the urge, how faint the songs thereof! 



43 



IN AN OLD WOODLAND 



Once I walked this woodland in the springtime 

And the musk of grasses drifted on the air; 
Scents of early flowers and a dewy freshness 

Of the leaves then met me roaming everywhere . . . 

Beauty-haunted, passion-wakened, 
Then I looked into my heart and found old longing there. 

Longing that must linger when the slender beauty 
And the lure of passion in things no hands may hold 

Lift from earth that, too, is in the body, 

Here I felt in springtime . . . Now the leaves are gold. 
Wistful-voiced and music-haunted 

Winds and trees have whispered things a springtime left un- 
told. 

Once I walked this woodland in the springtime, 

Looked through it to distance smiling in the sky . . . 

Everything seemed happy, sure of fair completion — 
Not a single bloom or leaf but had more joy than I. 
Love-awakened, beauty-chastened, 

Now I hold you close and tell of love that shall not die! 

Now I know what thrushes in this woodland 

Sang above the whispers of the leaves that stirred, 

Now, when leaves are dying and the blooms are faded, 

Leaves and blooms are in my heart grown wise as any bird. 

44 



IN AN OLD WOODLAND 

Lyric-throated, fearless-eyed, 
Love has spoken something now that only gods have heard ! 

II 

I am one who has seen 

The leaves dying, the leaves falling . . . 

In the nights I have heard 

The trees sighing, the winds calling . . . 

I know my life must be 

Kin to the life of a tree. 

I know my dreams 1 of green 

And silver, quickly stirred, 

Must fall as leaves. 

I know not how . . . 

I am young now, 

But in my youth there is an age that grieves — 

I am one who has seen 

The leaves falling, the leaves blowing . . . 

What after Love and Dream? 

Nothing worth knowing — 

Save my strength from the grass, 

Greeting new loves and dreams that pass, 

In tingling roots and flowers growing. 



Ill 

Restless, through the woodland where the breath of summer 
Left a passing fragrance, with the winds we go 
Haunted by the whispers 
Of a glory fading, 
Seeking for an answer we may never know, 
Fever-eyed and wistful-hearted in the afterglow. . . . 

45 



IN AN OLD WOODLAND 

Passing where my love-songs in violets were written, 
Where your youthful passion, with unbroken will, 
Silver leaves had spoken 
With an olden music, 
Now we find the violets gone, and leaves are never still — 
Broken music, beauty-haunted, whispers on the hill. 

Lingering in the woodland where the gold is fading, 

Where the leaves are dancing, in death, to wind's commands, 
Lift your eyes, Beloved, 
That the skies be brighter, 
Laugh again, that music thrill these stricken lands — 
Why this silent groping and these clinging hands? 



46 



IN PORTO BELLO BAY 

The ghost-ships waken with the moon 

In Porto Bello Bay, 
And many an olden pirate tune, 
Still drunken with remembered June, 

Trails through the mist away. 
The sails are spread, the faint lights gleam, 

The ships move to the seas 
As if they seek the ports of dream 

Beyond the Caribbees. 

The moon has spilled upon the bay 

Her cup of silver wine. 
The galleons turn against the tide 
Their shadow-prows; their ancient pride 

Speaks in each shadow-line. 
The glamor of their time returns; 

Purged of their sin they seem — 
Each seeks the port for which it yearns, 

Borne on the winds of dream. 

And in the hold of each is gold 

And down in every one 
Are gems that came from jungles deep 
Where flowers flame and ages keep 

The rituals of the sun. 
And every sailor-shape that stirs 

Looks yearning out to sea 
Beyond the mist, and no mist blurs 

His eyes of memory. 
47 



IN PORTO BELLO BAY 



One sees a running girl come down 

A street where flowers grow, 
One sees a little laughing lad, 
In colors of the rainbow clad, 

Wave welcome, all aglow. 
All see the gladness they had seen 

Before there came a day 
When anchors held from what had been- 

In Porto Bello Bay. . . . 

Before the moon creeps down to sleep 

She calls the ghost-ships home 
To harbors deep the years have made 
Of purple silence and of jade 

And flecks of silver foam, 
And with their memories they ride 

The daylight hours away, 
Unseen, unmoved by any tide, 

In Porto Bello Bay. 



48 



WHILE THE POLLEN DRIFTS 
I 

A bee has groped from the heart of a flower. 

The bloom is faded, the sweets are thinned, 
But the bee is drunk with its wine and passion 

And his wings move dreamily on the wind. 

His wings are laden with dust that's golden, 
And so, unknowing, he plays a part — 

For his want helps work the will of the pollen 
As he creeps to another flower's heart. 

There is a power luring and urging 

All through the dream and growth of things 

There's failure and fading — and still a glory 
Dusting its pollen on restless wings. 

II 

Old Simon's drunk on cider. 

He's buzzing like the bees, 
Swaying down into the town 

Grinning at the trees — 

Caring not who sees. 

For hours he was sitting 

Beside the cider mill — 
Tried to sleep, then had to weep 
49 



WHILE THE POLLEN DRIFTS 

Much against his will, 
On the swaying hill. 

He felt the Autumn turning 

Her saddened eyes his way . . . 

Alone and old and strangely cold 
He had no words to say — 
Ragged now and gray. 

Now Simon's drunk on cider, 

As busy as a bee — 
He'll tell in town how he marched down 

With Sherman to the sea, 

And so made men be free. 

Ill 

Old Miranda sees him 

Swaying into town — 
Poor gray ancient lover 

Silly as a clown, 
Turned away because she thought 

Jason wore a crown. 

Old Miranda snivels, 

Lonely as can be, 
Watching Simon passing 

Bowing to each tree, 
Longs to give a home to him, 

And end their misery. 

Pollen, drifting, drifting, 
Lost on barren ground! 
Old Miranda shivers 
50 



WHILE THE POLLEN DRIFTS 

Looking all around . . . 
Faded asters in the wind 
Make a ghostly sound. 

IV 

There'll be a moon to-night 
And winds across the grass 

And many crickets chirping shrill 
Along the way we pass. 

And where the pollen went 

All day we may not know — 

For there will be our clinging arms . . 
We shall not turn and go ! 

We shall not look again 

Into each other's eyes 
As often we have looked before 

With an alert surprise. 



I come from the fields and wooded places 

And roads that started where dawn began, 
And ended in colors that left but traces 

Where molten golds of sunset ran . . . 
And I have looked in the quiet faces 
Of flowers, when summer was nearly done, 
Lifting still in the wind and the sun . . . 
There are many words that I would say 
But only these shall I speak to-day — 
Here in the twilight under the eaves: 
When shadows were longer and pastures shorn, 
And corn-stalks were stronger to hold the corn, 
51 



WHILE THE POLLEN DRIFTS 

And Beauty was hardened and colors were thinned 
And blooms were worn, and dulled were the leaves, 
I have seen the pollen drift on the wind — 
And kept a thought that my heart believes ! 



52 



THE GAME-PANAMA 

"Senor, you win — but we have broken laws 

Of this fair city by the sea, 

And since you win it's fair you lose because 

I, as a guardian of the Law, must be 

No longer gamester but Alcalde sworn 

To duty . . . Let me see, Senor — 

A thousand pesos! It had seemed much more 

Piled on the table there across from me — 

And gaming time so near the smile of Morn! 

You are a stranger here, you say, 

And I shall be as lenient as I may — 

A thousand pesos — that your fine will be!" 

"But, say- — Alcalde — you invited me — 

And you have broken, too, 

The rules of this your city . . . Who will place 

A fine on you?" 

"Ah, there are gowns of lace 
And silk that I must buy to win her smile, 
And little silver slippers for the dance, 
And rings that she'll grow tired of afterwhile . . 
She'll stab my heart with coldness of her glance! 
It's all a game, Senor . . . Your fine 
Is easy since it is so quickly made, 
But mine, ah, mine 
How long it must be paid!" 



53 



THE HILL ROAD 

"Ah, Senorita, tell me where you go 
With orchid and hibiscus in your hand 
And all the morning in your face aglow." 

"Seiior, I go 

Along this path to that hushed bit of land 
Where is my first love's grave, and flowers grow 
By trees that stir with winds strayed in from sea 
And in the winds the sweet lush grasses blow 
Their whispers gracefully." 

"But why your smiles and flowers in your hair?" 
"But, ah, Senor, another lover there 
Waits now to weep with me!" 



54 



WHILE THE PRAIRIE WHISPERS 

I 

The maple leaves are golden ; 

They are falling one by one, 
And down blue-misted hollows 
There is the flight of swallows 

Glinting toward the sun. 

Along the lane where wild grapes 
Hang purple in the morn, 

A farmer asks his neighbor 

Upon their way to labor, 
"What's the price of corn?" 

And leaves about me whisper, 
"The price one has to pay ! " 
And winds toss leaves asunder 
Down lanes I walk and wonder 
The price of dreams to-day. 

II 

Her white dress glimmered in the rising moon . 
The orchard wall seemed very cruel and cold 
As she leaned there one lonely night in June — 
Sixteen years old! 



55 



WHILE THE PRAIRIE WHISPERS 

She dreamed of cities that she had not seen 

And had them rather changed from what they are, 
Until she thought she hated shadowy green 
And staring star. 

Then suddenly the cities faded out — 

It was not them she wanted after all . . . 
Her first real lover, coming as in doubt, 
Paused at the wall. 

The boldness of her dreams so quickly dead, 

She lost the glamour of the things she knew 
In cities far. . . . She blushed a bit, and said, 
Why, howdy do!" 



56 



IN THE DARK OF THE MOON 
I 

They said, "Death is a sleep and a forgetting, 
A rest and dream after Life's songs and sighs." 

I only know Death touched her lips to silence 
And took sunlight and starlight from her eyes. 

I only know Death chilled her lovely body, 
And that we laid it in the earth one day. 

Was that the end? Only dreams hear her singing, 
Only dreams hear her footsteps far away. 

Oh, once I felt that I had learned the secret — 
A rose grew from the earth where she was laid, 

And in the dark I knew it by its fragrance — 

Strange longings and old dreams within me strayed. 

But now the rose has died. The spell is broken. 

To-night the sky, without a moon, is blind . . . 
Only the tall soft grasses nod and whisper, 

Whisper and nod here in the restless wind. 

II 

The road is dark. No hills, no trees 
Lift from the levels of the dark. 
The high things and the low things are 
As one, and each familiar mark 

57 



IN THE DARK OF THE MOON 

That I have known to guide my way 
Is hidden. I alone remain 
Upon the road, and shall not stay 
To meet the coming dash of rain. . . . 
But do I move, or does my will, 
Heavy with dark and mysteries 
Stand leveled with the hills and trees, 
While Darkness moves and I am still? 

Ill 

To-night in cities glare the lights — 
There morning comes too soon. 

The people there at work or play 
Forget about the moon! 

Oh, I shall leave these desert hills 
Where darkness levels things, 

And walk again the streets and give 
My heart some tinsel wings. 

And I shall look in lovely eyes, 
And dance to many a tune — 

Till on a night my heart shall ache 
For silence and the moon! 



58 



SONNETS 



A MOUNTAIN LAKE 

Mirror of skies whose cloud-ships on your breast 

Arrive at havens of the mirrored trees, 

About you lift the splendors of the West, 

Across you move the olden mysteries 

Of light and shadow. Fed by melted snows 

Forever flashing on the changeless range 

Haloed by fleecy clouds, you find repose 

In beauty living changeless through the change 

Of seasons and of ages. One by one 

They see reflected growth and slow decline 

Upon your surface, chronicles of sun, 

Of shadow and of moon. Cedar and pine 

And mountain flower look on you as I — 

Meeting in you at last with peaks and sky. 



61 



THE CHRONICLE OF DUST 

There is a chronicle of dust that keeps 

Such things as often crowded day forgets — 

Here is a page written in violets, 

And here a page where the arbutus creeps. 

Out of long silence and the hidden deeps 

What love, what beauty, without vain regrets, 

Lifts to the spring again when dust begets 

New forms for them while earth their magic reaps? 

Such love as gave new meaning to the moon, 
Such beauty as made spring come back again! 
They are not lost in the tempestuous years. . . . 
dust, that saves to give immortal June, 
What fragrances from Heloi'se remain? 
And to what glory blossomed Juliet's tears? 



62 



HAZY WEATHER 

The circle is contracted and the sky 
Draws down to earth. Far hills are shut away 
In hazy silence and the dried leaves play 
A restless melody as winds go by. 
A smoky fragrance drifts, as if the dry 
And broken blooms of summer on this day 
Again have flamed — but now on pyres grown gray- 
To speak in perfumes till they, too, must die. 

What shall the spring remember of this time, 
When from the earth the offspring of these blooms 
Lift to the dancing magic of the rain? 
Bright leaves once more will scrawl a silver rhyme 
Upon blue distance — while from hidden tombs 
Come lives I live again and yet again! 



63 



FROSTY MEADOWS 

For me, there is a mood of friendliness 

In frosty meadows in the early sun. 

The sense of things frost-killed cannot repress 

An exultation that awakes to run 

Along still brightness spreading out for me 

Like softly fallen dust of stars, akin 

Somehow to magic on a morning sea 

Or distances from hills when mists grow thin. 

So it may be when I look out across 
Death-widened distance and may see no more 
Life's flaming colors and no more feel loss 
Of things that once a warmer radiance bore. 
And see, like frosty meadows through clear air, 
Dear lands — forget I ever suffered there! 



64 



CUTTING WEEDS 

When he was twelve years old he cut the weeds 
Along the fences where the cornfields swayed 
In hot, slow-moving winds and, working, played 
His scythe was turned a sword for mighty deeds. 
He felt the might of conflict; met his needs 
For great adventures with the thoughts that strayed 
Like pageants through his mind, and he was made 
The hero loved of ladies, knights, and steeds. 

What ill winds blew that mist of dreams away? . . 
Grown into manhood now he swings his blade 
With dogged, steady strokes along the fence. 
He thinks, perhaps, of gold the corn will pay — 
Is restless, vaguely troubled, half afraid 
Of wishes haunting him with imminence. 



65 



AN APRIL MOON 

Such laughter awakens, in the leaves to-night, 
As stirs like music in a heart that hears 
Despite all sounds of long-defeated years. 
And not a ghost from memory has might 
To hush one leaf or dull one path of light 
In this revival of earth's dream that nears 
Completion in reality . . . Appears 
The ancient wonder that is still our right. 

What branch was broken in the wintry blow? 
The new leaves wave their banners in its stead. 
What flower-seeds were prisoned by a stone? 
The frail stalks lift a senseless weight, to grow. 
And here vines creep to one tree scarred and dead 
And but for them how bare, how much alone! 



66 



BEAUTY IN THE RUINS 

A beauty speaks from ruins of old walls, 

Once high and beautiful, in some design 

Yet lifting from the dust, some lovely line 

Unbroken where a flood of sunlight falls. 

The structural splendors past, each stone recalls 

Some glory of the whole, and we divine 

In it a touch of mastery where twine 

The vines of ivy and slow shadow crawls. 

Because of what it was before it fell 

To ruin we may see in ruin still 

A certain grandeur long in balance hung 

Above the dust, and come to know how well 

Romance and wonder have again their will 

When some old men begin, "When I was young!" 



67 



MOTHS AND LIGHTS 

What puzzles me, regarding moths and lights, 
Is that no moth, in forests threshed or stilled, 
Is crushed of wing or by insistence killed 
For seeking starlight in the lovely nights, 
But starts toward death the instant that it sights 
A lantern's flame, and for a moment thrilled 
Must die with some desire unfulfilled, 
A symbol scorned by other futile flights. 

And I am sad for things that cannot choose 
Between the starlight and a lantern's flame, 
And sad for choice of sorrows as they are: 
To gain the lantern's flame and then to lose 
The life from which desire for it came, 
To seek the star — and never reach the star! 



68 



THE PROCESS 

I know a slope-bound valley held between 

Two hillsides in a semi-desert land, 

And rains, that seldom come, had washed the sand 

Of those gray hills upon the bit of green 

The valley lifted when I first had seen 

Its wistfulness. I saw its grasses stand 

Half-buried, as if for a reprimand 

From those stern slopes where weathered boulders lean. 

An old man looked upon the place with me. 

"First, sand," he said, "is washed from hills like these, 

Then richer stuff goes down there soon or late; 

Then gulches open and some earth will be 

Washed farther on — but all the finest trees 

Grow in such places, though it's long to wait." 



69 



VIGNETTES FROM LIFE 



THE FEEL OF SILK 

"At last I have it," whispered Kate, "at last," 
And spread the dark blue silk upon her knees, 
Touched it with loving fingers as she bowed 
Above its brightness . . . 

From another room 
A weak voice called her and Kate placed the silk 
Gently upon the table and replied, 
"Coming, my dear." 

"What is it, Jane?" she asked 
As she went in and stood beside the bed. 
"My lungs hurt, Kate," then coughing shook the girl 
So thin and white upon the bed. Blood showed 
Upon her lips, then rushed from them, and Kate 
Ran for the doctor, sobbing as she went. 

"This is the third in three days, and the worst," 
The doctor said when he had come. "Perhaps 
She may pull through this time . . . Her heart is weak 
She may not last till morning." 

From the sleep 
In which Jane fell she did not wake again. 

Five years had passed since Kate had brought the girl 
To this small mountain town, and Kate had taught 
The school and worked alone with hopefulness 
Upon her plain face. Just a month before 
Jane died they found that they had saved enough 

73 



THE FEEL OF SILK 

That Kate could buy a new dress. 

"Jane," she cried, 
"I love the feel of silk. At last I'll get 
A silk dress and if you don't care I'll go 
To Jason's dance next month." 

Her sister's eyes 
Were very wistful, but she said, "Of course 
You must go, Kate. You'll look so fine in silk." 
And later on she said, "If Jason King 
Could see you dressed right, not another girl 
About this place would have a chance with him." 
And Kate had laughed . . . "You silly child!" she said. 

Then came the silk dress — and that very night 
Jane died, and when they buried her the few 
Who came remarked how pretty she had been 
In that blue silk . . . 



74 



THE NEEDLE'S EYE 

Neither a woman nor a man long poor 

And humble, used to taking things that come, 

With wealth thrust quickly in worn hands, can pass 

Into the Kingdom of the Rich — no more 

Than camels can pass through the needle's eye . . . 

Josiah had been told, with doubting eyes, 
That he was worth a million dollars. Then 
He put away his hammer and his saw 
And went to see the oil well on his land 
That had been worthless for so many years 
Of aching toil, and with him went his wife 
In bright new calico, too awed to speak. 

They saw the source of this strange wealth that came 
From ground that failed to give good crops, but still 
They could not understand all that it meant . . . 
Upon the way home through the heated dust 
Josiah told his wife that she could have 
What she had wanted, and they talked about 
The fine hotel that they would build in town 
When they had sold the plain board rooming-house 
That for a year had driven want away, 
When men rushed to the little town to drill 
For oil . . . 

Now in that little town it's told 
How old Josiah laid his tools away 
75 



THE NEEDLE'S EYE 

And took no care for odd jobs waiting him, 
And then grew restless when a crew of men 
Began to build his fine hotel — and charmed 
With wages higher than his dreams had known, 
He went to work upon his own hotel 
For day's pay and, while working overtime 
For further profit, died . . . 

And it is told 
How his old wife, with eyes that hid their tears, 
When the hotel was finished took a room 
That was the cheapest, and kept on at work 
About the place in utter loneliness. 
With only one extravagance in all 
The years she lived : Josiah's picture there, 
Enlarged and framed in gold, beside her bed. 



76 



A DEEPER SPRING 

The curtains of the haze, like amethyst 
Long faded in the glare of sun, were hung 
On all sides in the distance. Two men moved 
Among the heat-waves surging low across 
Pale yellow sands ... At last one fell and clutched 
The hot sand, while the other turned to look 
And sagged there like a half -filled sack of grain 
Left stand alone. He helped the other rise 
And blood came from the movement of his lips 
Burned in the glare. He mumbled, "There's a spring 
Among the rocks — before us — half a mile." 
Again they stumbled on across the sands. . . . 

Two weeks before the older man, it's said, 
Had boasted of a worthless mine he found 
To sell the young man lately from the East 
With much more money than was good for him. 
The deal half closed, they started out to see 
The mine that huddled in a nest of rocks 
Across a stretch of bad lands, and prepared 
For comfort on the way. Their burro train 
Was loaded well with food and water-bags. 
The older man had winked before he left 
And told his friends he took along a drop 
To help his scheme . . . 

From ridges and scrub oaks 
Their journey led them down upon a waste 

77 



A DEEPER SPRING 

Of sand where cactus grew and hot winds hurled 
Themselves in fevered haste across the flats. 
Then came the sandstorm snarling in the dark. 
The burros lost, the two men started out, 
When winds had quieted, to find a spring. 

Now slow as shadows on the yellow sands 

They crept to that low ridge of rocks that held 

The hope of water. Nearly dead from thirst 

They crawled about when they had reached the place. 

The tepid water came in drops between 

Rusi colored rocks. 

"There's not enough for one," 
The older man was mumbling, "Drink . . . I'll go 
To find a deeper spring." 

The one who stayed 
To drink has told it since with troubled eyes. 



78 



NEW WALLS 

Stooped after years of leaning over books 

Where long neat columns showed another's gain, 

And with the look of some old ledger piled 

Upon a shelf for future reference, 

Old John went shuffling home in wistful haste 

To tell his wife that he had bought the land 

Where they would build their cottage — out beyond 

The shadow of high walls . . . And they could build 

The little house they planned and, from a life 

Of saving, still have left enough to keep 

Them safe if he could work a few more years — 

And now he was but sixty years of age 

And she was fifty nine . . . 

That night they sat 
Upon the small porch of their rented house 
Walled in by higher houses that shut out 
The view and kept away the stir of breeze 
To bless a sultry night. Said John to her, 
"It seems we've always been walled in . . . Out there 
We'll have the open and a bit of breeze." 
His small pale wife smiled, wistful as a child . . . 

They built the plain white cottage on the lot 
Beyond the shadow of the city's walls, 
And lived in it a year before again 
The shadows of the walls fell over them. 
Upon the right a high apartment house 

79 



NEW WALLS 

Shut out the view of willows by a stream. 

Said John, "We still can see the green fields there 

Upon our left." 

The old ones looked and sighed . . . 
Another month and on the left grew up 
A great stone house. The city had begun 
To spread, in earnest, to the open spot. 
Walled in on both sides soon, the cottage stood 
With view shut off and breezes turned from it. 
The view in front was street and little trees 
That had not quite decided how to grow. 
The bit of romance that the open gave 
The little place was gone . . . 

Said John one night, 
"I, feel more natural now, walled in. New walls 
Have found us here . . . Just walls and walls and walls 
Since I remember!" 

And he would have wept 
But that he knew his wife would weep with him. 



80 



GIFTS 

A Poorhouse is just that and little more — 
And people in glass houses would forget 
Such irritating evidences left 
Of Man's decline and fall, but such a place 
May sometimes house some beauty of its own. 

In Compton on a hillside stilled with snow 
Old John, so deaf he heard but shouted words, 
And gray old Henry, stone-blind, lived to greet 
Another Christmas Eve, and in a room 
Old John was reading from the only book 
He had — a tale of knights and ladies fair, 
While Henry played an old forgotten tune 
On his mouth-organ treasured very long — 
So long it squeaked with age in many keys. 

A sour-faced old woman passed them there 
And snarled, "A Merry Christmas." 

Henry stopped 
His tune and John looked up but did not hear. 

"What say?" said John. Then Henry shouted out, 
"She said 'A Merry Christmas,' to us, John." 

And for awhile the old men said no more. 

They had been close friends for a year, and now 
Each thought what he could give the other one. 
81 



GIFTS 

Thought John, "This book is all I have to give. 
I'd like to keep it, too. It's good to read." 
And Henry thought, '"I've not a gift for John 
But this mouth-organ, and I'd miss it so." 

At last John said, "I have a book for you, 
And, Henry, since you cannot see I'll read 
Your book to you to-morrow. That is all 
That X can give you — since I've nothing else." 

And Henry said, "John, all I have to give 

Is this mouth-organ and it's old as sin, 

But when to-morrow comes I'll play it close 

Beside your ear so you can catch the tune. 

I know you'll like it. . . . Let me feel the book." 

And John said, "Henry, play a bit — close up." 

Next day the old men had a merry time 
Together with their gifts — each having his 
And that he gave and something else beside 
Although they could not put it into words. 



82 



THE CROW'S NEST 

The crow's nest is not built to please the wren. 
And Luke's rough house stood high upon a hill 
Where pines in distance were like bristling hairs 
Upon a giant's head grown nearly bald. 
It was not liked by Sarah in her house 
So small and trim near birches where the lands 
Sloped to the valley. When she saw the hill 
Each day she saw Luke's house and frowned at it 
And said, '"It's like a crow's nest," to herself. . . . 
These two were married there two years before 
And parted — and were stubborn as the hills. 

It is a lonely land among the hills — 
The crows flew over and the circling hawks 
And stirred the place as unexpected crowds 
May rouse a country store. . . . Luke lived alone 
With his great dog, because his folks had lived 
In that same place before him, tilled the land 
And took what grew. And Sarah lived alone 
In her prim house because her folks had lived 
In it before her. . . . Then one windy night, 
For all her stubborn pride, the loneliness 
Was more than she could bear. She would not go 
To Luke and ask forgiveness, would not leave 
Her house for his without a good excuse. 
So desperate was her love, so much in need, 
She thought, "I'll burn this place. No other's near 
He cannot turn me out into the hills." 

83 



THE CROW'S NEST 

And so she fired the house she loved — and Luke 
Came down to help her fight the flames. No house 
But his was near, and so, at last, they went 
Into the crow's nest. Luke pushed back a door 
And went ahead of her. He kicked aside 
A pile of grass and rags that he had placed 
Along a wall, and Sarah asked, "What's that?" 
He growled, "A place I meant the dog to sleep." 
And Sarah laughed, "That grass burns fine. I know!" 
And Luke, though shame-faced, laughed with her at last, 
Although she said, "We might have had the sense 
To keep the better house since one's enough!" 



LONGER POEMS 



WILD APPLES 



The frost, still heavy on the lowlands, won 
A radiance soon melted in the sun 
That gave it, and the river took the lost 
Quick splendor that had faded with the frost. 
Then Malcolm looked a moment as in doubt 
Across the river and the fields about 
Touched with the glory that would be the death 
Of their rich season, then with quicker breath 
He left the road and followed down a lane 
Leading to uplands bright above the plain. 
His free stride rustled dead leaves as he went 
Along the hill-path ... To him came the scent 
Of wild grapes heavy with their sweetness still 
Ungathered in the brambles on the hill 
Except by birds in flocks that now and then 
Arose near him and settled down again. 
In one place opened eastward on the slope 
He looked far back and saw the hazes grope 
Above the city he had left behind, 
Like ghosts arising from a troubled mind. 
And as he watched he thought how he had seen 
Long columns moving while shells burst between 
Scarred ridges and the stricken woods, how smoke 
Thickened and thinned and thickened there to choke 
Parched throats of men, and all seemed near him still. 
Frowning, he turned and hastened up the hill, 
And on its crest looked down with eyes half blind 

87 



WILD APPLES 

With tears upon the place he came to find . . . 
Below him stood the cabin in the trees. 
The orchard, sweet with its old mysteries 
Of blooms that faded, fruit that came to pass 
Ungathered always in the matted grass, 
Now greeted him with but one definite sound 
Of ripened apples falling to the ground. 

II 

The moods of war, a feeling of defeat 

In victory has sent him back to meet 

The conquest of a city and its stress 

Of endless mimic wars, and bitterness 

And sense of some great nameless loss had grown 

Until he felt he fought the world alone 

For something that could never quite repay 

The hopes it killed, the youth it took away. 

And Malcolm's wife, a woman made of stuff 

Of strange confusions, did not care enough 

For more than superficial things to give 

An understanding that his love might live. 

Her early gifts on careless comers spent, 

She gave her later gifts of discontent, 

And he grew disillusioned of the one 

Who gave so little and so soon was done . . . 

First, her unbounded youth had lit the fire 

Of his quick love and passionate desire, 

And, seeing then in her no other thing 

To love, he loved that near to worshiping 

As was his nature ... He who sought a mate 

Was still unmated, hurt, insatiate, 

Through years of work to meet a definite end 

For dreams that lingered with him to befriend, 



WILD APPLES 

For his desires, hoping vainly still 
To shape life and a woman to his will 
Of beauty and true art, and failing that 
He grew less lover and more diplomat. 
His wife, resentful that he grew away 
From her while she was with him day by day, 
As some tree grows in sun and leaves a vine 
Still at its trunk and lower boughs to twine, 
Gave up the arts that made his love commence 
Its conquest, and by dull indifference 
Defeated her own ends, and soon or late 
Found each new turn a new doubt could create. 
Malcolm at last sought what she could not give 
And sometimes found it, but he came to live 
Between a sense of duties and desires, 
Torn in two strifes and burned between two fires, 
And, overwrought and weary, came to blame 
His wife more than for causes he could name. 
And she insisted he was wrong, she right, 
Keeping in hateful words a keen delight. 

By day he worked, by night he wrote to find 
If life's expression eased a troubled mind, 
And saw his art in competition win 
The notice virtue gains where there is sin. 
And still at night his wife could fill a need 
Of his much-hungered heart, and strangely freed 
From strange misgivings and the old unrest 
He kissed her still lips, crushed her to his breast 
With such a passion as would leave her cold 
And weary later like a woman old — 
Then he would sense her mood and turn away 
Resenting it, with nothing more to say. 
And so it was when War cried loud for men 

89 



WILD APPLES 

He gave his savings of hard years and then 
Left her in comfort while he went, half glad, 
To join the conflict of a world gone mad . . . 
The moods of war, a feeling of defeat 
In victory had sent him back to meet 
Vain conquest of the life, again, with her 
To whom his duty bound him ... In the blur 
Of maddened colors Life spread out for him 
A vast that sickened, awed, while still was dim 
The vision that he followed — and it kept 
So little that was beautiful. He wept 
'Alone sometimes while in another room 
His wife was sleeping soundly ... In the gloom 
Another's lips seemed near, another's hands 
Seemed touching him — one loved in other lands 
And more his mate than one who held him still 
Against his love, against his better will. 
Between a sense of duties and desires, 
Torn in two strifes and burned between two fires, 
He tossed at night and toiled by day to save 
Himself and one who took and nothing gave. 

Ill 

One night he dreamed of winds in orchard trees, 
Of fragrance from ripe fruit, and sound of bees 
Among the grasses. He remembered then 
A place he left and had not seen again 
Since one sweet summer, now so long ago, 
He tramped the uplands. There awoke a glow 
And magic in all things he visioned there — 
Spun bright in contrast to his dull despair. 
"I'll go to find that place again and rest," 
He told himself . . . Much longer than he guessed 

90 



WILD APPLES 

The habit of his work held like a chain, 
Misgivings walked like ghosts and hurt his brain 
And heart in shadowed places where his wife 
Now hurled the darts of her embittered life. 

Men called him genius and she called him fool 

Because she could not understand the rule 

Of Life in him, his vision of the whole 

Beyond her vision of a little soul 

In things that groped in darkness. But she made 

The most of his success and in it played 

A part of splendor while he paid the cost . . . 

She took it as her right for things she lost! . . . 

Discouraged past endurance he could see 
No further cause for bearing misery 
Of life with her and work that seemed in vain 
For all he most desired to attain, 
And so he gave her most he wrung from years, 
No more held back by blame or by her tears, 
And left her to her own devices . . . Then 
He started out to heal his heart again 
In that old orchard place a grandsire won 
From woodland years ago and left the sun 
To care for it when richer ventures led 
Away from it . . . Now Malcolm saw the red 
And gold of ripened fruit upon the trees, 
And from the crest went down among the bees 
In waving grasses. Smaller trees had grown 
Beside the old trees left so long alone. 
He pulled an apple from a bending bough 
And ate of it . . . There was a tartness now 
And winey richness in this fruit that grew 
Smaller and brighter than the fruit he knew 

91 



WILD APPLES 

When in his boyhood there he ate his fill. 

"These are wild apples now," he said ... A still 

Strange mood came over him as all around 

He heard the apples falling to the ground, 

Visioned the changing seasons there, the range 

Of growth and slow decay in all the change. 

A longing came to find a woman there 

With sun-kissed cheeks and fragrance in her hair 

Like ripe wild apples, with a warmth and glow 

Upon her lips and in her eyes. The slow 

Soft shadows started creeping from the wood 

Beyond the orchard land while Malcolm stood 

In thought ... He hastened to the cabin door 

And opened it and laid aside his store 

Of things his knapsack held. A smell of mold 

Was in the room and, feeling worn and cold, 

He gathered wood to fill the fireplace, 

And settled back with warm glow on his face 

As twigs were lighted. Mice crept out to see 

And, spell-bound, sat in corners silently. 

Late in the night while Malcolm read beside 
The fireplace a storm came up and cried 
Among the branches and the leaves were blown 
About the cabin and chill rains were thrown 
In gusts along the woodlands . . . Still the sound 
Of ripened apples falling to the ground 
Came in hushed moments of the storm. He tried 
To read for comfort . . . Suddenly outside 
He heard the sound of running feet come near. 
Some one had reached the door and he could hear 
The heavy breathing and the fumbling hand — 
And, while he was at loss to understand 
A presence there, he opened wide the door. 

92 



WILD APPLES 

Chilled winds rushed in with rain across the floor, 

Blew out his lantern's light and left the place 

In firelight — and so he saw her face. 

Her drenched hair hung jet-black, about her brow 

Like white blooms touched with starlight on a bough. 

Her eyes were dark, her lips were full and red 

As ripe wild apples, and she raised her head 

And looked at Malcolm in the firelight, 

Smiling a little even in her fright. 

She tried to rearrange her clinging dress 

That showed the lithe curves of her loveliness . . . 

"I'm glad to see you," Malcolm said. "I guess 

You're some lost angel of the wilderness." 

"You're kind," she said. Her young voice held the tone 

Of slender trees winds will not leave alone 

On stormy hillsides. "But the truth is less 

Than kindness," she went on. A bitterness 

Was in the words and Malcolm wondered all 

That troubled her, and watched the rise and fall 

Of her full breast still chilled with driven rain. 

She said, "A year in college is not good 

For one whose days are shadowed in the wood, 

But worse for one in empty glare. A plain 

Is past this hill-land, and I've crept away 

From farms sometimes by night, sometimes by day 

And wandering, I cared not where, I found 

This old deserted orchard with its sound 

Of mysteries and bees, and lingered here 

For hours to dream ... To me the place is dear — 

And so to-night I fled to it to save 

Myself from bondage and a life that gave 

Only despair." 

Said Malcolm, "Such a cause 
93 



WILD APPLES 

Has sent me here before you." 

In the pause 
That followed he reached out his arms. She went 
Half shyly, and with eyes of wonderment 
Looked up into his face, then pressed the warm 
Full sweetness of her lips to his . . . The storm 
Howled over them ... A beating at the door 
Hurled them apart. Then she went as before 
And stood beside the fireplace. She said, 
"He's followed me." 

And then she bowed her head 
Upon her arms. 

"Who?" whispered Malcolm then. 
"A man I hate," she answered . . . Came again 
The rain of blows upon the door. 

"Who's there?" 
Cried Malcolm standing with the fading glare 
Of firelight upon his clenched hands. 

"Me 
That has a right to be here where I be," 
A loud voice answered. "Open this here lock 
(Again the panels trembled with the shock) 
And leave me in." 

And Malcolm opened wide 
The door and met the rush of one outside, 
Closing the door behind him with a crash 
As he struck out. The other in a dash 
Of fury came at him, and Malcolm sent 
Him reeling with a lucky blow that went 
Straight to the jaw. The heavy form then sprawled 
In mud and dead leaves and with effort crawled 
On hands and knees a moment as he tried 
To rise again. 

"Damn you," the hoarse voice cried, 
94 



WILD APPLES 

"I'll kill you now." 

Said Malcolm standing near 
With fists in readiness and vision clear, 
"Get up and start. I'm waiting." 

And the man 
Lunged up at him. They grappled and a span 
Of grass and mud was milled by heavy feet. 
Panting, they struggled grimly in the beat 
Of chilling storm, and sweat ran with the rain 
Upon their faces twisted with the strain 
Of their tense bodies . . . Malcolm found a hold 
To his advantage as at last they rolled 
Upon the sod, with tangled legs. He drew 
The other's head back in a hold he knew 
In college days and heard the heavy rasp 
Of breath . . . The form grew limp then in his grasp 
And Malcolm saw the man had fainted, rose 
And, breathing hard, scraped mud from off his clothes. 
"Is that enough?" he asked his unknown foe 
Who stirred about at last. 

"No, damn you, no!" 
The other panted. "I'll go home and get 
A gun fer you." 

Said Malcolm, "Not just yet." 
And madder than before he rained his blows 
Upon that stubborn head, that fatted nose 
And swinish cheek that rubbed against his own 
While they had grappled. Heavy as a stone 
The head fell back upon the sod once more 
And Malcolm dragged the man, pushed back the door 
And took him in and bound him with a strap 
From off his knapsack. 

"Now then, take a nap," 
He growled, and turned to see the girl's wide eyes 

95 



WILD APPLES 

Full of the firelight and strangely wise, 

Upon him as she huddled by the fire. 

He turned to her with quickened wild desire 

To crush her lips and breast to him, and hold 

Her captive in the night now grown so old. 

She did not shrink from him as he went near 

But raised her arms to him and he could hear 

Her quick intake of breath, half sigh, half moan, 

As his hot lips were pressed upon her own. 

Forgetful of all else they clung there so. . . . 

The dark form on the floor threshed to and fro 

For freedom, and at last the fire died 

So low that only shadows side by side 

Clung past his reach, beyond his woe that kept 

Its vigil, straining, till, worn out, he wept. 

IV 

The storm had passed. The dawn came through the trees 

With rainbow-colors, and the sound of bees 

Was near the cabin. Sunlight crossed the floor 

From one wet window. Malcolm stiff and sore 

From fighting stretched his aching arms and woke. 

The girl beside him smiled. The bound man broke 

The silence then. 

"Unstrap me and I'll go," 
He panted out. "I didn't have no show 
With her I guess. She's wild as hell." 

"All right," 
Said Malcolm. "Hope you had a pleasant night. 
But don't come back . . . Who are you, anyway?" 
"What's that to you?" the other said. 

"I'll say 
I,t isn't much," said Malcolm as he took 

96 



WILD APPLES 

The strap from off the other with a look 

Of loathing. Then the other's stiff legs stirred 

Out of the door ... He left without a word. 

The girl came up to Malcolm. 

"I'll go, too," 
She said, "I am not good enough for you. 
I want for something different than I know 
But might not keep it if I had a show. 
I thought it out last night. I'd only be 
More trouble for you . . . He has only me. 
I pity him sometimes ... I'd better go 
Before I change my mind. I love you so — 
But you would like me just a little while 
Like these wild apples here." A weary smile 
Came on her face and, running from the door, 
She followed him who limped away before. 
And Malcolm, watching, heard no more the sound 
Of ripened apples falling to the ground. 
All fallen in the storm they ended there 
The season's offering . . . An old despair 
Came over Malcolm, and he gathered things 
Into his knapsack . . . 

"Something always brings 
An end to something else," he mumbled. Then 
He slammed the door and started out again 
Across the slopes. He saw once more the haze 
Above the city and he thought of days 
So long to haunt him, and to offer still 
The visions sometimes fashioned to his will. 

"Life is not well defined," he thought. "It goes 
In crazy circles . . . Beauty like the rose 
Flashes from it. Wild apples grow and fall 

97 



WILD APPLES 

In each new Eden ... I would taste them all — 
Forbidden fruit. For I have heard the sound 
Of ripened apples falling to the ground. . . ." 

Between a sense of duties and desires, 

Torn in two strifes and burned between two fires, 

He hastened back to Life that could not give 

Sure answers to his will to love and live, 

Keeping a sense of some futility 

In all but visions that his eyes might see. 



98 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

(To Mary) 

Carlos was old as Taboga Town 

His curio shop was wearing down 

In winds and rains that for ages beat 

On gray stone walls that touched the street, 

On weathered red of the ancient tile 

That palm leaves touched, perhaps, for awhile 

Before the palm tree grew too tall 

Trying to reach the stars that fall . . . 

And the stars fall near in the sleepy town 

When restless Trades their songs begin 

And there's only the sound of the seas come in, 

And whispers of one brook going down 

To meet the seas, and the monotone 

Of palm trees up in the night alone . . . 

Carlos said trade could never pay 
In Taboga Town, and he slept all day 
And talked all night when the moon was bright 
If only a stranger cared to stay 
Listening there in the candlelight . . . 
Elephants carved from ivory, 
And things of jade, and artistry 
In ebony were in the case, 
And a smell like myrrh was in the place. 
And a serpent skin and a leopard skin 
Hung on the wall in a gorgeous span, 
99 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

Back of Carlos, alert and thin, 

By shawls all blossomy with Japan 

And scarfs where golden dragons ran. 

And a pirate cutlass hung beside 

An Indian shawl meant for a bride. 

An image of Buddha, shadowy green, 

Stood in the candlelight between 

The window opened toward the bay 

And the head of Carlos, shadowy-gray . . . 

The folk in Taboga had said to me, 
"Carlos is mad as mad can be. 
With heathen idol he talks at night 
Of pirate ships and jungle-blight, 
And living here a useless life, 
He scorns the priest and has no wife. 
Even a stranger here can see 
Carlos is mad as mad can be." 

Carlos brought wine in a flagon old 
And from its mouth ran a stream of gold 
Into the goblets . . . What Carlos said 
(Or was it the wine?) went to my head. 
And was it his voice there, after all, 
Or words from the palm tree lonely and tall, 
Or only the sound of the seas come in, 
There in the season when Trades begin, 
Or whispers from one brook going down 
To meet the seas by the sleepy town? 

Carlos sighed, then he said to me, 
"You may not think such things can be . . . 
I am not the man that here you know, 
And one you see not lives with me . . . 
100 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

A life I lived so long ago 

Is clearer than dawn that comes to glow 

Upon the sea . . . 

There is a fragrance in this room? 

It is her garments stirred in gloom, 

It is her hands that reach to me. 

"Once I was king on a pirate ship 
In the Caribbees, on the other side 
Of that thread of land a Hand let slip 
From looms of Chaos flashing wide. 
We took the gold, from many a hold 
Of galleons bound for Spain, 
And silver bars and gems like stars 
For which some men were slain. 
One twilight, oh, so long ago, 
We won a galleon lumbering slow 
In the shadow-seas, and there I found 
The life whose circle keeps me bound . 
I saw her eyes — the stars came then 
As they shall never come again. 
I saw her hair — the twilight bore 
Beauty that I shall see no more. 
I saw her breast — the world became 
Before my eyes an altar's flame. 
I saw her hands — my heart remains 
As when I had torn off her chains . . . 
She was an Indian princess, won 
By crime, from gardens of the Sun. 
Beyond her walls the beasts grew still 
To hear her voice that seemed to fill 
The airs with music. That I know . . . 
Tigers crouching long and low 
101 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

In the grasses could not stir 
Out for prey when near to her. 

"And I took her, let my men 
Take their treasures, and again 
Over waters starry-blue 
We sailed into our rendezvous, 
Miles of shouting winds away, 
Now called Porto Bello Bay. 
Not a word that I could know 
Did my Indian princess say — 
But Love sees and understands . . . 
There was thanks in touch of hands, 
There was faith in eyes that grew 
Brave and let her love shine through 
At last — so very long ago, 
Yet it seems as just to-day. 
She was free, yet bound to me 
Then by love, but far away 
Olden glories, palace rooms, 
Gave her longing in the glooms. 
And she clung when I would go 
Seaward for a golden foe, 
Clung and wept and pointed west, 
With an idol from her breast 
Lifted for my eyes to see. 
Then my pirates turned on me, 
Took the ship, and sailed away, 
Left us to the jungle-night, 
And the flaming jungle-day, 
Left us there with suns and moons — 
And my belt of bright doubloons! 
There I had new foes to fight: 
102 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

Crawling vines and twisted things, 
Much that grapples, much that clings, 
Much that chokes and claws and stings. 

"Onward to the shores, but guessed 
Through the jungle, to the west 
We made progress as a fly- 
In a spider's web, and why 
The web was broken who can say? 
We struggled on and found the way . . . 
For the stings the jungle gave 
It gave food and drink to save. 
Weary, and with garments torn 
Into rags, we smiled at morn. 
With our flesh pierced there with spears 
Jungle-grown, we scorned our fears. 
Fever-dew that hung in damps 
Was made bright by firefly lamps. 
Serpents thick as jungle trees 
Looked, and only one of these 
Barred our way. My cutlass fell 
On the coils of black and green 
That, when severed, writhed so well 
Yards of jungle were worn clean. 
Crimson flower, crystal moon 
In the passionate jungle's June, 
And the heavy, throbbing rain — 
There was j oy and there was pain. 
Over fifty miles we passed, 
Some by pathways, pirate-made, 
Till, upon a hill, at last 
We saw the ocean's blue and jade, 
And Panama, an ancient town, 
Dreaming where the hill sloped down 
103 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

To a bay where sails were bright. 
Under roof we slept that night, 
For my belt filled with doubloons, 
Bright as early jungle moons, 
Bought our way — and no one cared 
From what land to land we fared . . 
And next day my bright doubloons 
Bought my princess silks the moons 
Spun for her, and sandals bright 
With some dreamer's lost delight. 
And I bought her rings of jade, 
Necklaces of sapphires made. 
Then, to match her regal air, 
Bought myself things men call fair. 
Oh, that day of squandering 
When I, truly, was a king! 

"But no kingdom there was ours — 
That old town with flaming flowers 
And its palms against the skies, 
And its little pomp and pride 
Fearing jungle-blight outside 
Was not ours . . . My restless eyes 
Saw an island past the bay, 
But a few bright miles away. 
Now it's called Taboga . . . Here 
Grew that kingdom for my dear. 
Here there grew in jungle-space 
Walls of beauty and of grace 
And a garden went around. 
One brook made a lovely sound 
Over stones as smooth as glass. 
Long I toiled. Inspired hands 
Made my dream — How quickly pass 
104 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

Days the dreamer understands! 
And, as if the beauty known 
Was too much for two, there came, 
In a night of starry flame 
Aching with my darling's moan, 
One — of our firm flesh and bone, 
One — of our great love and dream — 
Grew and laughed and in the stream 
After golden fishes ran. 
Widened circles then began ... 

"Three years, four, (or was it more?) 
Passed, and in a breathless night 
Came a heaving of the might 
In great shoulders underground, 
And our island writhed, the sea 
Heaved and tossed in agony. 
From our falling walls we sped, 
Fell upon the shaking land, 
Three of us, all hand in hand . . . 
Trees crashed down, and overhead 
Swords of lightning slashed the sky. 
So we waited there to die . . . 
From the turmoil rose the sea 
Like a wall, and up the beach 
Came with madness, hungrily 
Took all things within its reach — 
But before our bodies passed, 
Clinging close until the last, 
I saw a great white ship at sea 
Sail in as if no storm could be, 
And Indian music drifted far 
Above its mastlight like a star . . . 
I saw three white forms, hers and mine 
105 



A NIGHT AT TABOGA 

And our small son's, walk on the brine — 
Out to that ship ! 

Our mortal hands 
Still clung together, in death, on the sands . . .' 

The voice of Carlos did I hear? 

The candlelight grew strangely clear . . . 

It hurt my eyes and I stumbled down 

From the haunted room to the haunted town. 

And as I walked the street by the sea, 

What soft footsteps passed so near? 

What thrilled whispers came to me? 



106 



THE WALL OF THE STARS 
I 

The walls that once protected me 
Turned prison walls when I would see 
Beyond them, and when I had seen 
Something was not as it had seemed . . . 
My years were marked with walls between 
The things I knew and things I dreamed. 
And I shall never quite forget 
The first wall where my feet were set 
That I might look on something new. 
It was a garden wall where grew 
The vines that climbed to give their bloom 
A vantage ground to spread perfume. 
And then at last I found a way 
To climb the wall. I watched the play 
Of sunlight over it, and thought 
How long my childish dreams had spent 
My efforts there, that came to naught, 
To see forbidden wonderment. 
And I was sure that on the side 
I had not seen, the lawns were wide 
And peacocks strutted in the sun 
And fairies danced when day was done. 
And then, at last, I climbed and there, 
Beyond the wall, was nothing fair 
As I had dreamed. There was no sound 
Except the murmurings of bees. 
107 



THE WALL OF THE STARS 

An old man walking through the trees, 
With bowed head, did not look around. 
With vague distrust and hurt surprise 
I left the wall to play a game 
That lost its gladness, and my eyes 
Could never see the wall the same 
As it had been when wonder-wide 
They looked — and lost the other side! 

II 

The wall of green slopes, in a spring 
When first I learned how birds could sing, 
Next barred me from something I sought. 
And I grew troubled then with thought — 
Saw violets creep through the wall, 
Saw earth-things great and earth-things small 
Creep through where fingers of the rain 
Had stirred the dust to life again. 
I felt the green slopes were a wall 
Behind which worked in wonderment 
The forces that I could not call 
By any name, and discontent 
With what I knew of things so fair 
Came to me, as in watching there, 
I saw stones moved aside by things 
So frail it seemed they could not hold 
More force than any moth's white wings. 
And so the tale of spring was told 
Upon the slopes, and summer came 
With fuller passion, brighter flame, 
And all things found completion, fed 
Behind the wall, whereon my head 
Had rested, while I heard in trees 
108 



THE WALL OF THE STARS 

The talk of winds and under these 
Whispers that came incessantly, 
As if the wall would speak to me 
And I could never understand. 
Then autumn came upon the land 
And scattered on the wall the bloom 
And leaf, and in the restless gloom 
All lovely things crept back again 
Into the wall ... In chilling rain 
I walked the slopes grown gray and bare 
And olden sadness in the air 
Crept into me. I could not name 
The sadness, yet a sadness came. 
The dust of things that made me be 
Marked seasons of the earth in me ! 
And still I could not join the things 
That crept into the wall, till death 
Should still the eagerness of breath 
And take the olden sense of wings 
And weights from me, then not again 
Could I creep out to sun or rain . . . 
The earth-wall had, for me, one side — 
One while I lived, one when I died ! 

in 

The gray walls housing learning rose 
Before me, and the doors were wide — 
And strange fear came that they might close 
And keep me in a world outside 
While others entered there to find 
What golden ages left behind . . . 
And when I entered there it seemed 
I went to hear from men who dreamed 
109 



THE WALL OF THE STARS 

And sent their dreams in words of fire 

To hearts' awakening desire. 

I saw worn eyes that looked on youth — 

Puzzled with life, men talked of truth! 

I knew some souls in travail there 

Preached brave desire from despair, 

And all who taught, by any rule, 

Had yet their own desires to school. 

And some who listened caught the flame 

Of urges that they could not name, 

And some who did not hear a word 

To half-unguessed vibrations stirred. 

Men told me what had been, not why, 

They gave me laws of earth and sky 

And atoms free in endless strife — 

All that begins and ends in life 

That moved like thunder through my dreams. 

And then life called to me, it seems, 

Above all sounds, and growing less 

Wise voices thinned to nothingness, 

And turning from vain lore and prided 

I left those walls — for walls outside! 

IV 

The dust-stained walls the city kept 
Behind me did not open soon. 
I came to disregard the moon. 
Mad nights the olden dreams had slept. 
I found a world that seemed to care 
Only for things that one may wear 
Or store in places walled with stone. 
And so I lived a life alone 
With life, and many dreams I sold 
110 



THE WALL OF THE STARS 

For gold — and men were mad for gold! 

Men hated men, not that one knew 

More ways to gladness or could do 

Some miracle no bank could hold, 

But that there was a store of gold; 

And women hated, with a smile, 

For what gold bought; and afterwhile 

I fought with others for the thing 

I saw the city worshiping. 

That was a first impression . . . Then 

I saw the hungry dreams of men 

And women squandering their gold 

To keep their hearts from growing old. 

And, afterwhile, I saw it all — 

The hearts that faced some lofty wall, 

The rich, the poor, forever one 

Facing the walls till life was done. 

And, as I left the city's walls' 

For land where fresher sunlight falls, 

I found a tiller of the soil, 

With sweets of earth to breath at toil, 

Cursing his fate and all his gods 

That hid his wealth among the clods . . . 

Over his wall his dreams had told 

Of vaster harvests turned to gold! 



Somehow, I felt that there would be 
More glory in the victory! 
The walls of mangled earth are there 
Before me! In the poisoned air 
The shells scream as they carry death. 
The fitful wind brings up a breath 
111 



THE WALL OF THE STARS 

Of rotting pools where blood has dried. 

The shattered trees long since have died, 

And homes are splinters for the wind. 

For miles ahead and miles behind 

Are wastes of mud, and hills torn deep 

With steel, and wounded woods that heap 

Their losses up in twisted piles. 

Death plods ahead for tortured miles — 

And through it all I lived to face 

The mangled earth another place, 

Then climbed that wall, and with the rest 

Advanced, and when the fight was won 

The misted rays of setting sun, 

Along the red rim of the west, 

Showed still another wall ahead 

Grotesque with sprawled shapes of the dead 

Somehow, I felt that I would see 

More glory in the v victory! 

VI 

And then — when I had looked across 
A wall of mountains to the sea 
I lost myself, and felt no loss 
A moment with immensity . . . 
And then my vision cleared to see 
Vast waters, past all harbor bars, 
Break on the last wall of the stars! 



112 



THE THREE DAYS 

No matter if the sun is bright 
Or if the rain that came at night 
Still falls at morning, I arise 
From sleep and hardly see the skies 
Through windows, for I wake intent 
On things that I must do and things 
That I have done or hope to do . . . 
I feel, sometimes, the lift of wings, 
Sometimes the drag of chains, as you 
Have felt, perhaps, and to the day 
I go, in much the same old way 
As I have gone before, to meet 
Adventure — victory or defeat. 
And for each day that comes to me, 
With sun or rain, I live in three — 
In yesterday I live to gain 
Wisdom to shun what caused me pain, 
To seek what caused me joy, and then 
See if it may give joy again. 
And in to-day I live to do 
Things that I must and just a few 
Things that I love, perhaps as you! 
And in to-morrow, I, live 
For all that dreams and life may give — 
Or take away — Or take away? 
Then.is to-morrow as to-day? 
And are the days in circle cast? . . . 
Perhaps that's so, perhaps that's why 
113 



THE THREE DAYS 

When time is slow and dreams delay 
Beside the spring till it runs dry, 
Some hearts creep back to yesterday 
To live the only joy they found 
In the pattern hard and round . . . 
Perhaps that's why some hearts that came 
From nowhere yesterday must claim 
To-day alone, with the exclusion 
Of to-morrow, a delusion . . . 

In the circle, round by round, 
Laughter echoes, and the sound 
Of all sorrows near and far; 
Comes the roar and wail of war, 
Comes the voice of love, and strife, 
Wail of infants finding life, 
Come the sound of bits of gold, 
Cries for all things bought and sold, 
Comes the singing voice of dream, 
Noise of wheels and hiss of steam, 
Comes the last quick gasp of breath 
At the old surprise of death, 
Comes the whisper of the leaves 
Growing, falling, while there weaves, 
Through the pattern green and gray, 
Wind that speaks and sighs away . . . 
Where the circling ages pass, 
Where the new age dreams to be, 
Come the whispers of the grass, 
Come the voices of the sea . . . 
In some yesterday I came 
From the flesh that felt the flame 
Of my waking, ached with pain 
For the world I was to gain, 
114 



THE THREE DAYS 

Loved me, feeling then in me 

A blood-bond's immortality . . . 

The flesh is made by God as much 

As any white wood of a tree! 

I love that flesh that had the touch 

Of sun ... I love my body, much 

The same as other mortal forms — 

In it the moonlight gropes and fills 

Strange places, and the sudden storms 

Come in from oceans and from hills, 

Come voices that I seem to know 

And had forgotten long ago, 

Come voices that I f had not known 

Yet feel somehow they are my own, 

Come lives in which I had no part 

Until they echoed in my heart, 

Comes love, and yearning, and the sense 

Of things about, and imminence 

Of things I may not touch or see . . . 

In each day now I live in three ! 

I know the language of my kind — 
Words from the heart, words from the mind. 
These words give everything to me — 
From violets to immensity ... 

I know the language of a stream 
And the voices of a tree, 
Of the half-articulate sea 
Mumbling always at its dream. 
They are overheard by me, 
Talking things of mystery 
And of beauty and delight. 
Often in the crooning night, 
115 



THE THREE DAYS 

Sitting lonely near the sky 
I have spoken. No reply 
Came for me . . . Forever pass 
Voices, and the whispering grass 
Speaks of things indifferently — 
Temples fallen, dust to be, 
Bodies stilled for all their trust, 
King and wise man in the dust, 
Harlot, virgin in the ground, 
Thief and dreamer wrapped from sound 
Through their dust the roots of things 
Grope and feed something that sings — 
Leaf or grass — and naught is said 
If the flesh be comforted. 

Dust, indifferent and cold 

To the touch of mortal hands, 

But delusion understands 

Any rapture you may hold 

For the body that must pass. 

You are kind to bloom and grass, 

You are mother to the tree — 

You will be a grave for me! 

Only coward, fool or knave 

Touched with virtue calls the grave 

By such names as I would speak 

To my love when on her cheek 

Warm blood gives the flesh a bloom 

For my kisses ... In the tomb 

Who would bless the earth's perfume? 

While I live I'll love the thing 
Called the flesh, and flowering 
Of the flesh that may be soul 
116 



THE THREE DAYS 

Or be dream that will not pass 
Where the empty seasons roll — 
While men move above the grass . . . 
From the flesh may come to be 
Beauty's immortality 
In a new life or a song 
That a season sends along 
With the new leaves for a tree. 

Dust, indifferent and cold, 
Take me — spent of dreams and old — 
As you will, but I shall be 
Indifferent and cold as you, 
Chilled in silence through and through 
I shall not be in love with you! 
While the roots of grass and tree 
Shall grope down and take from me 
Something for the things that sing, 
Something for things whispering, 
In the winds above the ground — 
In the circle, round by round! 



117 






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,-fcT : Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 

Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
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